A low, distant rumble caught my attention. Before I had time to mention the odd noise to Cat, the rumble built to a horrendous, ear splitting roar. The boat heaved and swayed, and we became drenched with water from huge waves that appeared out of nowhere. I grabbed Cat by the arm and pushed her ahead of me down the steps, then turned and closed the hatch and twisted a wheel to tighten the watertight seal.
Everyone below had been jarred from their sleep by the noise and the thrashing of the boat.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Heidi screamed. Martin’s face was ashen.
“It’s an earthquake,” Gonzales replied, the edge in his voice betraying his outwardly calm demeanor. “Nothing to worry about. They’re not uncommon in this part of the world. It’ll be over soon.”
His confidence was short-lived. With a hideous din, a stalactite came crashing down, like a giant stone spear hurled at us by a furious Mayan god, enraged because we had invaded his sacrosanct domain. The sharply-pointed slab of rock burst through the top of the compartment, coming to rest only inches from Dean Martin’s skull. We could hear similar missiles landing on the top deck.
“Submerge! The water will lessen the impact,” Pablo shouted.
“I can’t,” Gonzales replied. “It’s too late. The stalactite’s punched a hole in the hull. We’ll take on water if I dive. We’ll just have to ride this out and hope we don’t catch any more direct hits.”
In less than a minute, the earthquake was over. We spread out over the boat to assess the damage. When we rejoined, Gonzales announced, “The top deck’s a total mess—it’s covered with a huge pile of broken stalactites. The rubble is making the boat top-heavy. If we don’t remove it right away, we might capsize.” The crew headed topside immediately; they didn’t have to be ordered.
“The sub’s suffered quite a bit of damage. Fortunately, it’s all on the top. The engine’s still okay, and so’s the propeller. As long as we stay on the surface, we’ll be all right. But we can’t go back the way we came, through the Blue Hole.”
He grinned sardonically. “Well, Pablo, we’re all going to have to go with you through the jungle now, whether we want to or not. It’s a Hobson’s choice.”
I wondered if Gonzales knew my last name was Hobson. Probably not. Pablo and Pietro had referred to me only as Señor Alfredo.
“How much longer will it be before we get to the cenote?” I asked.
Gonzales checked his watch. “About an hour, give or take a few minutes. We should arrive around daybreak.”
In the darkness, I’d lost track of time. We’d been in the submarine for more than twelve hours and hadn’t eaten. No wonder I was famished.
As if reading my mind, Catarina announced, “I’ll go to the galley and make us some breakfast. Bacon and eggs. And lots of hot Granada Negra coffee.”
The galley turned out to be a two-burner hot plate and an old percolator, but Cat was good at making do. Soon, she’d prepared a plate of crisply cooked bacon and a huge platter of scrambled eggs laced generously with habanero sauce.
During all the commotion, we’d forgotten about Muscles and Red. They were lying where I’d left them, in the stern of the boat—somewhat terrorized from the noise and being shaken about, but otherwise unharmed.
“If I untie you so you can eat, are you going to give me any trouble?” I asked.
“No. What good would it do now?” Muscles replied resignedly. “It seems we’re all in this mess together.”
“That’s right. We are. If you want to keep on living, you’re going to have to come with us.”
“And where’s that?”
I figured it couldn’t do any harm for them to know. “We’re going to see Mario Perez. He’s the president of Granada Negra.”
Red spoke up. “We know who Perez is. Are you going to his command headquarters?”
That was a strange way of putting it, I thought. “Yes. To his hacienda.”
“Where the hell are we now?” Red asked. “In Granada Negra?”
“No. We’re still on the Yucatan peninsula.”
I saw a peculiar look pass between the two men, as if they either didn’t believe me, or, if they did, they were overwhelmed by the revelation.
“Mexico, huh? This operation is bigger than I thought.”
“And just exactly what did you think?” I queried.
Muscles shook his shoulders. “It doesn’t really matter any more, does it? Que sera, sera.”
Thanks to Doris Day, that was one Spanish expression I understood. Whatever will be, will be. Since I’d met Cat, that had been the story of my life.
Twenty-Six
Christmas at the Hacienda
IT WAS A RATHER SMALL CENOTE, not more than fifty feet in diameter, little more than a wide well. The water near the surface was torpid and murky, an ugly dispersion of brown muddy runoff from the storm mingled with a thick blanket of slimy green algae. We had to climb about a hundred feet to reach the top of the sinkhole, hanging on to sinuous, muscular vines all the way up to keep from falling back down and into the feculent fluid.
Pietro and Miguel went first, helping Catarina, Heidi, and Luther make the ascent. When they reached level ground, they tossed a rope down and, one at a time, hoisted cartons the crew tied to the rope. Most of what we’d intended to take to the hacienda--including our suitcases—had to be left behind on the submarine. It would have been impossible to take them on our trek through the jungle.
We took only items necessary for our survival—food, a first aid kit, knives, and machetes. With two exceptions. Cat insisted on taking the can of Granada Negra special blend coffee she’d brought for her father. And Miguel still held tight rein on the black leather valise containing two million dollars in United States currency.
Gonzales stuck two pistols under his belt. Pablo and I carried the Uzis—though that was almost an idle gesture, as there wasn’t much ammunition left for those weapons. The three of us went up the steep slope last, except for Red and Muscles. I made them wait on the submarine until everyone else was on top of the cenote. There was no sense in taking a chance they might try to pull something on the others, all of whom were unarmed.
If anything, Gonzales had underestimated the difficulty of getting from the cenote to the hacienda. The boat’s crew forged through the dense undergrowth, hacking a narrow path for the rest of us. The others followed. Pablo and I brought up the rear, immediately behind our prisoners.
We encountered no jaguars, ocelots, or other jungle cats—elusive, reclusive, nocturnal creatures, animals that slink silently through the rain forest at night and are not inclined to show themselves to humans at any time. Howler monkeys kept their distance, but announced our arrival with bloodcurdling shrieks. Their cries were immediately acknowledged and echoed by the shrill chatter of tropical birds—parrots and toucans being the most conspicuous.
Occasionally, an agouti—a large rodent used by the natives for food—crossed our path. Iguanas—also edible—and hyla tree frogs, green with red feet, were everywhere. The few snakes we saw, though large and formidable in appearance, slithered away harmlessly, as much in fear of us as we were of them.
On a more pacific note, I was enthralled by the large number of colorful butterflies and the exotic flora. There was a fortune in bromeliads and orchids, if one could transport them to the United States.
It seemed as if we were a thousand miles from civilization. The rain forest was much darker than I’d expected, sunlight rarely shining through to the ground. At times, we were up to our ankles in thick, sticky mud. I was most concerned when we found it necessary to wade thigh-deep through the edge of a mangrove swamp, for Gonzales had told me smallish Morelet crocodiles abounded, ready to snap a leg in two at the slightest provocation.
Fortunately, we had no untoward incidents along the way. We stopped a few minutes every hour to rest, and at noon to eat. By three o’clock, the rain forest gave way to a grassy savanna plain, and we could see the outline of the hacienda several miles in th
e distance.
Three or four military-type jeeps were scattered about the property. Why couldn’t someone at the hacienda spot us and drive out to transport us the rest of the way? That was not fated to happen. We walked the entire distance.
When we were about a hundred yards from the main building, several soldiers came upon us suddenly. Although they had been told of our impending arrival, they prudently exercised caution, keeping their rifles at the ready, until we had satisfied them we were who we were supposed to be.
I’d never seen a picture of President Perez. In fact, Catarina had never even described him to me. In my mind’s eye, I’d visualized him variously.
Perhaps, I thought, he would be molded in the image of Fidel Castro, with a long, shaggy beard, an omnipresent cigar, and wearing guerrilla-style olive-drab fatigues.
Or, perhaps he would look more like Joseph Stalin, pompous and fat, his upper lip covered with a bushy mustache, and dressed always in a spiffy custom-tailored military uniform, his chest ablaze with a fruit salad of ribbons and medals.
I was totally unprepared for a tall, slim, devilishly handsome, clean-shaven man, not over fifty years old, with jet black hair and dark, penetrating eyes, wearing a spotless vanilla ice cream suit. A man who, save for his youthful appearance, could have doubled for Ricardo Montalban costumed for the old Fantasy Island TV series.
When President Perez first greeted us, his attention was focused entirely toward his daughter.
“Catarina, my precious,” he gushed. “You look lovely! But, what on earth happened to your beautiful hair? Did you have an accident?”
“It’s a new style, papa. It’s all the rage in the States,” she lied.
“If you say so. On you, it looks nice.” Obviously uncomfortable with her mannish red locks, he quickly changed the subject. “Did you have an enjoyable trip?”
“Yes, papa,” she lied again, then changed the subject herself. “I brought you this can of Granada Negra special blend coffee, as you requested.”
“Just one?” he teased. “I will have to save it for a very special occasion.”
“I also brought something for you, father,” Miguel told him, not to be outdone. He handed his father the valise.
“Thank you, my son,” Perez responded, taking the leather bag containing the two million dollars, not bothering to check the contents. “You have served me well. Both of you. I’m quite proud.”
And then, President Perez turned to me. His dark eyes flashing, his mouth twisted into the lopsided, quirky Perez smile I’d grown to know so well, he scrutinized me up and down, from my rumpled hair to my muddy feet.
“You are Alfredo, my daughter’s fiancé?” he questioned, obviously knowing the answer in advance.
I nodded and extended my hand, but he pulled me to him in a bear hug and kissed me on both cheeks, Continental style.
“I have heard so many good things about you, Alfredo. Not from Catarina, of course—we have not been able to talk to each other for some time—but from my sources in the United States. You will make her a superb husband. I’m absolutely certain of it.”
There it was again. That phrase. Having heard Perez say it, I knew his warm greeting could not be more sincere.
He shook the hands of the others, even Muscles and Red, to their astonishment.
“All of you must be very tired and hungry from your long journey. There will be just enough time for you to bathe and change before dinner. For our Christmas feast, my chef has roasted a piglet, which will be served with all of the traditional accompaniments: habanero salsa, black beans Granada Negra style, mashed yams with coconut, pomegranate dumplings, and kosher dill pickles.”
Shocked, I checked the calendar on my watch. It was December 25th. I’d completely lost track of the days. In the tropical climate it seemed like anything but Christmastime. I suppose Granada Negrans would feel equally disoriented if confronted with Santa Claus, snow, and sleigh rides.
Our clothes had been ruined. The staff managed to round up jungle camouflage military uniforms in our approximate sizes, complete even to combat boots. After we showered and changed, our little army was seated around a large dining room table laden down with food. The roast pig was the centerpiece, head intact, a large red pomegranate in its mouth.
“I know Pablo and Pietro,” Perez said, addressing no one in particular. “And of course, my son, daughter, and now, her intended. But I didn’t get introduced properly to the rest of you earlier, when you first arrived.”
“Sir, please allow me to present Dean Luther Martin and Heidi Hazelhorst,” I started. “They work at the same college I do … er, did.”
“Luther and Heidi are having an affair,” Catarina chimed in. “We ran into them in Cancun, where they had gone for their tryst.” Martin looked slightly embarrassed; Hazelhorst gleamed and gloated.
Perez turned to Gonzales questioningly, waiting for him to speak.
“I am Captain Gonzales. I brought everyone here in my submarine.” In turn, Gonzales introduced the four members of his crew.
“His submarine was heavily damaged during the earthquake,” Catarina informed her father. “It was bombarded by falling stalactites.”
Perez waved with a flourish. “Then, I shall have it repaired. If that is not possible, I will buy him another. Larger, sturdier.
“And who are these two?” he asked, nodding toward Red and Muscles.
“Those are Alfredo’s prisoners,” Catarina proclaimed proudly. “We don’t know their real names, but we call them Red and Muscles.”
Her father’s eyebrows raised. “That seems appropriate. But tell me, please. Why did Alfredo take them prisoner? What did the men do?”
I responded to his questions. “They were following Catarina and me around Cancun. And, they invaded our boat and held us at gunpoint. I think they might have killed us. But, Captain Gonzales’s crew captured them. I can’t take the credit for that.”
Catarina’s father stroked his chin. “This is very strange. Very strange, indeed. Your prisoners, Alfredo, have inadvertently become my guests of honor for Christmas dinner.”
Perez pondered the perplexing problem. “I suppose we could put them in irons, if that would please you. But, in the spirit of the season, what do you say to total amnesty?” he offered magnanimously.
“I … I guess so,” I stammered. “But first, I’d like to know why they were after us.”
Perez nodded. “Yes, I agree. That is very wise—even though we have the men considerably outnumbered, and there’s no place they can escape except into the jungle, where they would most certainly perish. However, before giving Señor Músculo y Señor Rubio the run of the roost, so to speak, I think we’re entitled to some answers.”
His eyes narrowed to mere slits, Perez addressed the two. “Why were you after my daughter and her fiancé?”
Apparently taken aback by Perez’s generous offer of freedom and realizing they really had no choice, nothing to lose, and everything to gain, Red and Muscles decided to come clean.
“Actually, we were trying to get to you, President Perez,” Red told him.
Perez frowned. “To assassinate me? Do you work for the Granada Negra rebels?”
“Not to assassinate you. To try to stop you.”
“Stop me from what?”
“We work for a small, top secret special operations group in the United States government. We’re completely independent of any other agency. The sole purpose of our organization is to insure the stability and integrity of the small, emerging nations in Central America,” Muscles said.
“Go on …”
“When our intelligence reported that Granada Negra troops and military vehicles were massed at the border and you were ready to invade your western neighbor, Parador …”
Perez interrupted him brusquely. “I have no such intent. Parador is my country’s staunchest ally. Its presidenta, Señora Vilda Hyer, is … uh … er, she’s … ahem, a very special friend of mine.”
“Oh,
papa,” Catarina chimed in. “Don’t be so evasive. I know. I know el presidenta of Parador is your paramour.”
One brow shot up. “You do?”
“Certainly. I read the Granada Negra Enquirer. Every week.”
“If you weren’t expecting your country to go to war, why did you send your wife and daughter away and go into hiding yourself?” Red pressed.
Perez eyed the two men disdainfully. “Apparently, your intelligence sources are inept. You’ve been listening to someone in the CIA, I would imagine. They’re always making monumental mistakes, particularly in this part of the continent.
“We left Granada Negra for reasons of personal safety, but certainly not because of our country’s relationship with Parador, which has never been better. A group of rebels, led by my traitorous general of the army, Pancho Villa, and his henchman, Cesar Toro, have been leading an insurgency. I merely stepped aside for a little while to give them enough rope to hang themselves. Which they have nearly done.”
“Perhaps …” Red started.
“Yes?” Perez urged.
“Perhaps we can help you solve your problem. We will be glad to offer our services to your country.”
Perez stroked his chin. “Perhaps you can. Yes, perhaps you can,” he murmured thoughtfully.
Twenty-Seven
Meeting Among the Dead
CAPTAIN GONZALES and his crew flew back to the cenote and the submarine in a small helicopter. Fortunately, the hacienda had some welding equipment, with which the men hoped to be able to patch the damage inflicted by the barrage of stalactites. If they could make the craft seaworthy enough to traverse the underground river and the Blue Hole, Gonzales figured, permanent repairs could come later in a dry dock. On the return trip, the chopper pilot brought our suitcases to the hacienda.
Miguel, Red, and Muscles stayed at the hacienda with Catarina’s father. They intended to join us later in Granada Negra, if our plans proved successful.
Cat and I were driven to Belize City by President Perez’s soldiers in a jeep caravan—off road and over dusty trails, until the main highway was reached. Heidi and Luther decided to tag along, as they didn’t need to be back at Timberline College until several days after New Year’s.
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